


syzygy of us

by punkscully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, txf revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkscully/pseuds/punkscully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully’s eyes gravitate to the one phrase she knows Mulder has been waiting for. The X-files have been re-opened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	syzygy of us

**Author's Note:**

> syzygy:  
> • the paired opposites, where the One is never separated from the Other  
> • in astronomy, the straight-line configuration of celestial bodies

Frost settles on the ground that morning. The world is white and luminous, the clouded sky shining against snow-chiseled grass. Trees edged along their lawn are dark, almost black, and branches obscure the trail leaning inwards.

Steam rolls off of Scully’s body as she steps from her bath. Her hair, damp at the temples and nape, plaster onto her in small curls, even as she unpins the bun from her scalp.

She pulls on her robe and goes into the kitchen where a cup of coffee is waiting for her, bordering on lukewarm. She wraps her fingers around it and looks out the window to the backyard, where she sees Mulder meandering, hands in his pockets. It’s early, barely past dawn, but Mulder doesn’t sleep much, never has. Scully too sleeps less than she once did.

Scully opens the back door and calls his name. Mulder looks up and waves nondescriptly, then goes back to his aimless walking. Scully sighs, tightens the belt around her robe, and steps outside. The cold stings her bare feet, but Mulder really isn’t so far off from the house so she keeps walking. She cranes her neck for a moment to look back at the house and sees a small cabin in the pallid wilderness, encased by a light fog and wooden panes, so different from the yellow and pink lights pulsating nightly through their District apartments. There is no sultry asphalt here, only dirt roads.

“I went for a run,” says Mulder when she approaches. She looks at him, in his coat and pajama pants. “Well, I was going to,” he says sheepishly at her raised eyebrows, then grins, “but someone took my favorite running robe.”

Scully smiles and ducks her head. The deep v-neck of her robe loosens and the curve of her breast peeks out, but she doesn’t adjust. She suddenly feels silly and young, her cheeks candescent in spite of the harsh January morning. The land around them is so expansive, yawning out for miles in every direction, and they are alone in the quiet. Scully reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Mulder’s ear. It is longer now that it ever has been. He’s been shut in too long, she thinks.

“Do you ever think where we’d be now,” she asks. “If we had never met, I mean?”

“I’d probably be dead.” Mulder laughs, but Scully knows he means it. “And half my refrigerator would be expired. Why?”

Scully only shrugs. She thinks of the exhaustive cycle of motels with the same patterned carpet and broken ice machines, roads billowing out through corn or desert, and the muscle aches that accompany long rides. Little black shoes and calluses on her heels, the glasses Mulder used to wear when he was young. She takes his hand.

He looks down at her. “Scully… Scully. Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes.”

Mulder stares, caught between concern and jest, then takes off his coat and slips it onto her. “You should go inside,” he says.

“Come with me, then.”

“I—”

“Come on,” she says, and then, suddenly, takes off at a run towards the house.

“Scully!” Mulder yells, but she can hear his feet clamoring on after her own, imprinting the hardened grass.

Mulder’s unzipped coat flutters away from her waist and her robe opens, but she keeps running. Above her, the moon lingers. It is so cold and so bright and the wind beats loudly against her ears and sweeps over her chest and stomach and thighs. She can hear Mulder laughing and imagines his arms swinging, his long legs loping towards her. Everything around her, unsaturated, except Mulder.

She stumbles onto the porch and sits clumsily, Mulder following a moment later. They are both out of breath, heaving and expelling smoke, grinning conspiratorially with lungs burning. Mulder pulls Scully towards him and her legs fall over and between his own. She shivers and he secures his coat around her.

“Don’t you have work today?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not today.” Scully closes her eyes and leans her head against Mulder’s shoulder.

“Do you wanna go in?”

“Not yet,” says Scully. Inside is clutter, manically pinned newspaper clippings, photos of Samantha that are occasionally faced down, a single photo of Emily, and no photos of William at all. Scully’s medical bag sits by the bed and her work schedule awaits her on her desk. There are fish that need feeding and plates that need cleaning and a whole harrowing history that demands remembering. And, somewhere, are two worn badges.

They sit in silence a little while before Mulder whispers, “Look in the pocket.”

Scully puts her hands into Mulder’s coat pockets and pulls an opened envelope from one.

“What’s this?” she asks, studying the return address.

“Read it,” he says in the same hushed tone.

The letter is rather long-winded, but Scully’s eyes gravitate to the one phrase she knows Mulder has been waiting for. _The X-files have been re-opened._ She rereads the letter a few times and looks at Skinner’s signature at the bottom. Director Skinner, she notices. 

Mulder is quiet, waiting.

She turns in his arms. “So…when are we going back?”

Mulder says nothing, but smiles and kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> chris carter isn't real


End file.
